


Stay With Me

by adamwhatareyouevendoing



Category: ITV Victoria, ITV Victoria (2016), Victoria (TV)
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-09-04
Updated: 2016-09-04
Packaged: 2018-08-13 00:16:25
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,618
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7954612
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/adamwhatareyouevendoing/pseuds/adamwhatareyouevendoing
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <i>“You owe me a dance, Lord M,” she says confidently.</i>
</p><p>At another ball, Victoria and Melbourne dance together once again. (Set somewhere between 1x01 and 1x03).</p>
            </blockquote>





	Stay With Me

**Author's Note:**

> Wanted to post this before tonight! Good luck to all Vicbourne shippers - we’ll need it!

Another occasion. Another ball. Another opportunity to remind himself that he is old, and undesirable, and does not fit in.  
  
Melbourne stands at the edge of the room, watching as the Queen dances with potential suitor after potential suitor. She looks beautiful, as always. It is a miracle such large skirts do not swamp her diminutive frame, and yet she looks nothing but regal, and nothing short of breathtaking.  
  
He is so distracted by these dangerous thoughts that he doesn’t notice she has stopped twirling around the room until it is too late and she is at his elbow, looking up at him with those soulful blue eyes that he could easily drown in if he isn’t careful.  
  
“You owe me a dance, Lord M,” she says confidently, but not emboldened by champagne this time, he can tell; only the natural determination that serves her so well in every other aspect of her life.  
  
“I beg your pardon, Ma’am?” Melbourne manages, more to stall for time than anything else. He has still not managed to erase from his mind the last time they danced at an occasion such as this; the radiance of her smile and the feel of her body pressed against his. Nor has he forgotten the way she grabbed at him in the hallway in her insistence for another dance.  
  
She tuts, as though in reprimand for his lapse of memory at the promise he made her, and puts a delicate hand on his arm.  
  
“Last time, you said ‘not tonight’, and now it is a different night,” she clarifies for him, a triumphant shine in her eyes.  
  
He cannot dispute it, and yet is reluctant to indulge it either. He is in dangerous territory, he knows. That he loves her he can no longer deny, and yet he is also fully aware that she can never know. She is the Queen, and cannot be tarred by the same brush that brands him a disreputable womaniser. He cannot allow himself to bring her to ruin, not even if it means a final chance at happiness. He is content simply to be by her side, to guide and advise her. (If he tells himself that often enough, maybe one day he will believe it).  
  
But he would do anything,  _anything_ , to not have to see that crestfallen look on her face again. If he’s honest with himself, it’s all he yearns for, to hold her in his arms once more.  
  
And when she looks at him like that, oh goodness, it’s enough to bring a saint to his knees.  
  
He is only a man after all—he is not made of stone—and so he crumbles, damning himself with a simple incline of the head. It is worth it, if only to see her enchanting smile. He leads her confidently out onto the floor (at least it would appear that way to anyone watching, inside he is terrified), and then of course it is worth it for many more reasons than that.  
  
Her waist is so tiny his hand almost fits right across it when he wraps his arm around her. His skin tingles where it touches the back of her dress, the fine silk of her corset ribbons pressing into his fingers. And her fingers, oh, they are so delicate; a feather light touch on his shoulder and tiny where they hold his own.  
  
The music swells and sweeps, and yet he barely pays it any attention, moving instinctively. He has no awareness of anyone else in the room, so captivated is he by her face.  
  
“I was right,” she murmurs, quiet enough that he alone can hear. “You dance very well.”  
  
“Years of practice, Ma’am.”  
  
“Oh, come now, Lord M,” she admonishes with a bright smile. “I will have no more talk of you being old.”  
  
He finds himself returning her smile with ease tonight. Normally he would dispute it, of course. Giving her any reason to believe that they are anything but unsuited for each other is a dangerous game indeed, and yet there is something in the way she is carrying herself this evening that is different from any other. When in the past she has been breathless, tonight she is certain, steady, and sure. Where a request to dance with him has been accompanied by pleading eyes and desperate tugging, now there is only a confident touch.  
  
She is looking at him intently, as though he is a puzzle to be solved and she is waiting to find out what happens when she works out the answer.  
  
_You_ , he thinks,  _you are the answer to every question that matters._  
  
The piece of music ends, and yet he finds he is reluctant to part from her. They remain wrapped in each other, frozen in time. If he could tear his eyes away from her for one moment, he might see Emma, on the edge of the room, smiling knowingly. As it is, the young woman before him is the only thing worth looking at, so he drinks his fill before he has to surrender her to another partner and they are dragged apart.

 

***

 

He leaves the ballroom somewhere around her third dance with the current preferred suitor, hurriedly murmuring something to Emma about getting some fresh air. He briefly toys with the idea of leaving; sneaking away like the coward he is.  
  
As it is, his feet seem to make the decision for him, and he finds his way to the nearest balcony.  
  
This jealousy is irrational, of course—he knows that she must marry, and that such a union will be advantageous to the country—but he cannot help it. He clings to the railing, tethering himself whilst the worst of the darkness passes through his head.  
  
“There you are, Lord M.”  
  
He freezes at the sound of her voice, although really, he should not be surprised that it is she, of all people, who would seek him out. He turns to her, like a sunflower desperate for the light.  
  
“I hope you were not thinking of leaving without saying goodbye.”  
  
“Of course not. A breath of fresh air, Ma’am, that is all,” he says, although his voice sounds strangled even to his own ears.  
  
She draws closer to him, and he hopes she does not notice the quickened pace of his breathing.  
  
“I know,” she says, a playful smile breaking onto her face. “I’m only teasing. Emma told me where you’d gone.”  
  
He resists the urge to ask why she followed after him, instead opting for a safer deflection. “You will be missed in the ballroom, Ma’am, it seemed like the Prince was enjoying your company.” He prays she cannot hear the bitterness in his words.  
  
She pulls a face, and he cannot help but laugh a little.  
  
“Was he that bad?”  
  
“After you, everyone else pales in comparison,” she says honestly, and not for the first time her words are like a lance to the heart. “It seems needless to return now. Perhaps it is time to retire.”  
  
As if on cue, the great clock chimes behind them.  
  
“Well, it is late,” he agrees, with a wry twist to his mouth, once the sound has died down.  
  
Her soft laugh at his poor attempt at a joke causes a second lance to follow the first.  
  
“Stay here tonight,” she murmurs.  
  
The shock at her boldness must show on his face because her pretty cheeks flush, but she does not break his gaze.  
  
“I cannot, Ma’am”—and there it is again, that crestfallen look that breaks his heart in two—“it would not be proper.”  
  
This time though, unlike the last, she does not draw back. “I am the Queen,” she says imperiously, “I should be able to decide what is proper. Besides,” she adds, in a lower, softer voice, “I do not think you wish to leave me.”  
  
He cannot trust his voice, because all he could do is agree with her. Instead he inclines his head politely. “If it is your wish, Ma’am, then I will stay.” It is not safe to dwell on his wishes.  
  
Her bright answering smile tells him he made the right decision.  
  
“It is agreed then. I will have a room set up for you.”  
  
He walks her back to the North Wing, where she sends a servant to make sure one of the guest rooms is ready to receive an overnight visitor.  
  
It feels like the longest wait, out in the hallway, where anyone might see them. He hates the rumour mill, but knows shamefully that he would take any snide gossip thrown his way as long as he could face it with the memory of the joyful, almost conspiratorial, expression on her face that she wears right now.  
  
She has not yet released his proffered arm from the walk across the palace.  He can feel the warmth of her hand through the fabric of his jacket.  
  
The servant returns, is thanked politely, curtsies and leaves.  
  
They are silent in the wake of the departure. There are a thousand things he wants to say and yet cannot find words to voice any of them. Perhaps it is for the best.  
  
Once more she saves him from himself, initiating the goodbye he cannot bring himself to speak.  
  
She raises on her tiptoes to press a kiss to his cheek.  
  
“Goodnight, Lord M,” she whispers against his skin, so low he barely hears it, and then she’s gone in a flurry of skirts.  
  
He stands, rooted to the spot, staring at the space she has just vacated. A small smile creeps onto his face, and he can’t find it within himself to suppress it.

 

 


End file.
